Midwinter in Himring
by Elesianne
Summary: The shortest day of the year is still full of light in Himring as Maedhros celebrates the midwinter festival with his people and a few visitors.


_**A/N:** Because I was struck by sudden inspiration and today was winter solstice, here is a simple little story about Maedhros and Maglor celebrating the shortest day of the year in Maedhros's stronghold during the most peaceful time of the First Age._

 _There are some happy feels bordering on fluff, hints of nostalgia, and a fair amount of light angst because, well, Maedhros. This was originally meant to be a completely light-hearted fic but somehow turned into a little study of how for Maedhros, even happy days carry reminders of shadows._

 _OC names – for horse and seneschal – from realelvish dot net._

* * *

 ** _Morning_**

The shortest day of the year dawns late, of course, but when the sun rises it illuminates a perfect winter's day in the hills of Himring. There are no clouds in the pale blue sky and the light is as bright as it can be at this time of year; it is nothing compared to the light of the Trees or even summer sunlight, but Maedhros' people welcome it with joy after many cloudy days that felt like perpetual twilight.

The winter sun creates blue shadows on the snow that covers Himring and the surrounding hills, but this day adds little to the snowbanks. It snowed heavily at night, but now only a few errant flakes dance down in the near-still air that is not as freezingly cold as it usually is, only crisp and cool. All the world smells of fresh snow and of the smoke pouring out of the chimneys of the fortress and the settlement around it.

It is a perfect day to go for a ride, and Maedhros does so as soon as it is fully light. He goes together with several of his own guard, his most trusted warriors, but they do not go to keep watch or inspect defences. On this day as on all days, he has made sure that there are others on duty, many enough to keep good watch on Morgoth's creatures.

No, Maedhros and his guards – his friends, truly, the men he would and does trust his life with – ride simply for pleasure. Both men and horses are eager to run, to break into the lightly packed snow and make it whirl in the air around them. The way it glitters in the sunlight reminds Maedhros of the gemstones his family crafted so many of, in the land beoynd the sea in what feels like another life. The memory is oddly free of pain this once.

His horse bucks a little in a show of his high spirits; Maedhros restrains him but then scratches his neck. Súletál is as brave and as faithful a friend as the men riding by his side, and he will get carrots when they return to Himring.

Maedhros's musings are interrupted by one of his men calling, 'Riders, my lord; not ours, but Eldar nonetheless.'

Maedhros looks where the guard is pointing and indeed, there is a group of riders coming towards them from the east. 'Let us go meet them.'

They approach the riders, their hands on their weapons, wary as always in this land. They have been at relative peace for nearly a hundred years now, but the lord of Himring is ever-vigilant, and they had not been expecting any visitors.

As soon as Maedhros sees the dark-haired man riding foremost in the unexpected group, his scarred face stretches into a wide grin.

'Brother!' he shouts in greeting, and his words carry easily in the still air.

The answering shout carries even better, but then Maglor always had superior control of his voice. 'I hope you are not on your way to my land', he calls to his elder brother. 'We spent a miserable night camped out in the middle of the snowstorm and will be most happy to take advantage of your hospitality for at least a week.'

Maedhros trots to meet Maglor, then turns his horse to ride alongside his brother. 'You are welcome to stay for a week or more, as long as you fill my halls with song every night.'

'Ah, the usual payment for room and board that the miserly lord of Himring requests of his own brother. Well, if the strings of my harp did not snap from the cold last night, I shall be happy to pay.'

Maedhros grins again at his brother; his arrival always brings light as well as music to Himring. 'It was not even that cold last night. I think you are going soft in peacetime, Maglor.'

'Perhaps I am. Do tell me, though: has that excellent seneschal of yours planned a great feast for tonight's midwinter celebration?'

'She has been busy organising it for weeks.'

'Then I did not make the trip in vain', says Maglor with a smile.

The brothers spur their horses to a canter and ride to the great fortress at the hill of Himring, the snow flying around them still glittering like jewels.

* * *

 ** _Day_**

Preparations for the night's solstice feast are indeed well underway, Maedhros notes when the riders arrive in the fortress courtyard that is bustling with servants and tradesmen. They ride on to the stables and dismount next to a sleigh full of evergreens. A determined-looking woman with her hands on her hips is overseeing a group of servants gathering and carrying off the branches, telling them where to put the evergreens for decorations.

'We have surprise guests for our feast, mistress Merelaineth', Maedhros calls to her. 'I trust you can find beds for my brother and his retinue.'

'Of course, my lord.' She curtsies to the brothers. 'I will send word to have mulled wine and food served in the great hall at once, and your usual rooms, lord Maglor, will be ready within the hour.'

'Thank you.' Maglor follows his brother into the stable and they tend to their horses.

'Will you join me for training?' Maedhros asks as he shares Súletál's carrots evenly between his steed and Maglor's. 'It might be a good way to warm up your frozen fingers and toes.'

Maglor replies with a crooked smile, 'I think I shall prefer warming up by a roaring fire, drinking that mulled wine your seneschal mentioned. I might spar with you tomorrow.'

'Very well.' Maedhros pats Súletál's neck one more time and leaves, throwing over his shoulder at his brother, 'You are going soft indeed.'

The sound of Maglor's laughter rings in Maedhros's ears as he makes his way to the training yard with his guards, changes to lighter clothes and starts his daily training routine.

Ever since he first picked up his sword in his left hand, having recovered just enough from the years of torment to do so, he has made it his custom to never skip training, not on festival days or for any other reason.

He needs to train, spar, exercise, hone his strength and skill. To set an example for his men, for they must be ready for the enemy. Morgoth may seem dormant, cowed by the siege the Noldor have set on him, but though he may sleep he is still there, and one day he will break forth again, of that Maedhros is certain.

But it is not just for the sake of being an example that Maedhros trains so relentlessly. Morgoth had made him weak; after, he had made sure to become stronger than he had ever been. As long as he lives he will not give up that strength. (There is a fire in him that was kindled in darkness… but he will not think of that on a day as glorious as this.)

Training in the crisp weather dressed only in light clothes is bracing and invigorating and Maedhros enjoys it as much as he did the ride. It takes a conscious effort to calm down from the flurry of physical activity to play good host to Maglor and his people at the midday meal, and especially to spend several hours of the afternoon attending to his correspondence. He keeps glancing out the window that is half-covered in hoar frost in shapes of flowers and ferns.

* * *

 ** _Night_**

Night falls early, as it does here in the north of the world in wintertime, and it falls absolute tonight, for it is the time of the month when Tilion has been scorched by Arien and the moon does not appear. Yet this night's darkness is filled with light: with torches, with countless candles and with voices raised in cheerful chatter or in song.

Maedhros's folk gather in the great hall of the fortress, its walls decorated with evergreens and the long tables draped with brightly coloured cloths. With the fires blazing in the tall fireplaces and the heat of many bodies, it is soon as warm as if it was a summer's day while they enjoy good food and drink to celebrate winter solstice.

It was the Sindar of Mithrim, another northern land, who started this tradition just a few years after the sun rose in the sky and created the yearly order. The Noldor soon adopted it from the Sindar, for even though there was little cause for merriness in the first years filled with fear and need, the knowledge that the cold and the dark would soon abate was a source of relief strong enough to celebrate.

(Maedhros believes that the Noldor are eager to celebrate the passing of any darkness, even a natural one, because everyone who was present when Ungoliant brought her unnatural darkness to Valinor remembers the despair that fell into their hearts at the dying of the light.)

As the long, sumptuous meal nears its end Maglor stands up from his place of honour at Maedhros's side to go join the musicians.

'Only merry songs, brother, none of your heart-rending compositions tonight', Maedhros requests with half a smile and only half in jest.

Maglor smiles at him just as ambivalently, and swift-footedly walks to take his place at the centre of the group of musicians. There are many skilled singers and players in Himring, of course, but they all defer to Maglor's greater talent when he visits, happy to let him take the lead.

He had been conferring and practicing with them during the afternoon and they all knew what to play now; soon, the sound of music fills the great hall and the hearts of everyone there.

Despite Maedhros's request, the first song does not begin merrily. Maglor's beautiful voice, accompanied by mournful music, sings of dark days when even starlight seems dimmed, of being lost in a strange place and sundered from everyone and everything that is dear, of fear of worse –

Then, just as the lights in this very room look like they are beginning to dim and despair creeps into spirits, Maglor's voice rises like a wave and, joined by many other voices, drives the darkness away with powerful words of hope, love, loyalty; the listeners are moved to tranquillity and then, gradually, to elation.

The song lasts for a long time, it must, yet it seems like no one in the room draws breath or blinks while it lasts. And when Maglor ends it and takes his musicians to the next song without even waiting for applause, Maedhros feels like he is waking up from a dream. The power of his brother's music never ceases to amaze him.

The second song is a cheery one, a song meant for tapping one's foot to or dancing, and as everyone recovers from the shared reverie, the more enthusiastic young people start pushing back tables to make room for a dance floor.

Maedhros stays seated in his chair on the dais for a time, chatting with friends and enjoying the best wine that can be found in his cellars. He does not allow himself to be pulled into dancing though a few of the braver maidens do try, but he does join his voice to the chorus for songs which Maglor recruits many others to sing while the musicians take a well-earned break.

Some of the night he just sits at a hearth and watches the room. His servants, craftsmen and -women, warriors and guards; his friends and his people. His brother, whose visit was unexpected but very welcome.

There is a warmth in him that goes beoynd the fire and the wine.

He knows that he can never return to the home of his childhood, the big house full of treelight and the sounds of many noisy boys, but as he closes his eyes for a moment and listens to the crackling of the warm fire, the happy chatter of his people and his brother's beautiful music, he thinks that this too feels like a home.

Though nothing can be as it once was, there are good days here, and this is one of them.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Thank you for reading, and happy whatever-you-celebrate-at-midwinter!_


End file.
